


We Are The Dead

by iamtheoneinthehole



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: 1984 AU, Minor Implied Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:47:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1936290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamtheoneinthehole/pseuds/iamtheoneinthehole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was strange to think that something as simple as opening a book was as good as a death sentence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are The Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by the book 1984 by George Orwell. I adore this book and really wanted to explore that through an au verse. Enjoy!

It was strange to think that something as simple as opening a book was as good as a death sentence.

An empty book, blank, unwritten. Full of no ideas, dangerous or otherwise. No words, newspeak or old. Nothing. And yet, by opening the pages of this book he was a criminal. By opening it, and approaching it with a pen, and setting that pen against paper. A diary, a death sentence, a choice in a world where choices were forbidden.

And yet he pressed on, pen against paper, tracing out a date… it was probably wrong, hard to say when the only authority you had on it was corrupt, when you _knew_ it was corrupt but… he had little other reference to go by. If today was _his_ April 4th, tomorrow could be the 5th, even if ‘Big Brother’ claimed otherwise, to him it would be the _5th_ … Not the 4th.

Thought crime. A thought that wasn’t theirs, or perhaps was but wasn’t _meant_ to be his. It was unregulated, undesigned, a thought was meant to be _no one’s_ but it was _his_ thought. A thought against Big Brother, however small, and they _would_ know. They _always_ knew. And they would find him in the end.

He scrawled one last note below the first. A year, uncertain as the date but a point of reference all the same. 2014… and then a question mark for good measure. Because every year seemed to be this one and that wasn’t how years were supposed to work, was it? The answers, he knew, had long since been erased by the party but the answers hardly mattered anyway. Not as much as the solid proof that there _were_ answers that had been erased, altered… deleted.

He’d be able to know now if they did because this diary would prove it and that… that was exactly why it’d been forbidden in the first place.

A death sentence maybe but perhaps it was worth it, to at least for a handful of days live without the shutters Big Brother pulled down over everyone’s eyes and _see._

\----

The world seemed a lot more hostile, even with the book tucked away safely in the one corner of the flat that _they_ couldn’t see. Just because they couldn’t see now, after all, didn’t mean they hadn’t _seen_.

Perhaps putting pen to paper _had_ been a mistake after all because now his skin practically crawled whenever he met the gaze of men, women, children, co-workers, neighbors. Anyone could be the enemy. It had always been this way but now _he_ was acutely aware of it. The thought police were everywhere, everyone knew that.

His boss’ daughter was well on her way to being one, that much was obvious. A little girl with high pigtails and a smile that never contained anything but malice. She was already responsible for the disappearances of three people, two men, one woman, and lately she’d been eyeing him with the looks she’d given them. Looks that practically screamed she _knew_.

Thought criminal.

If he concentrated hard enough he could remember the sound of her little shrill voice screaming it at the man whose name he’d forced himself to forget, the victim of hers that he’d known, the one he’d erased from history later on that day.

Traitors didn’t exist after all. The day that man had committed thought crime, he’d ceased to be. All records erased. Birth certificates, death certificates, articles, pictures… until nothing remained. Until the man _truly_ ceased to be, ceased to ever have been.

But he’d had a name, a name now scrawled in the diary, in the back, with the other names he still remembered. A list of his victims... a list of names that he imagined he’d soon be joining. He’d already gone ahead and added it in a messy scrawl. Michael Jones _not_ ‘Comrade Michael’. He could still remember enough of the woman who’d raised him to know his name. That knowledge at least, no party announcements had managed to erase yet.

He wondered if anyone _could_ truly forget something so personal.

The date, passages of time and even who they were at war with was impersonal, the dead mostly forgettable but… could someone’s sense of self really be scraped away, little by little, from a person’s mind?

Whenever he met that little girl’s gaze, he got the feeling that the answer to that question wasn’t one he’d particularly like.

“Comrade Michael I’m so sorry, she’s just a little enthusiastic.” So the screams of ‘thought criminal’ hadn’t just been in his head then.

“It’s alright.”

“She just hadn’t had the chance to go out today. Youth League tomorrow gives them a chance to-”

“Really it’s fine.” He couldn’t quite place the woman’s name, supposed he’d never bothered to learn it. All he knew was, between her child and the man she’d married, he pitied her. Her daughter was the kind of child who’d betray her own parents to the party if she decided they were traitors. His boss was the kind of man who’d thank her for it, if he truly believed himself to be an enemy of the party… But she seemed normal. Perhaps she had been, once.

“I want to go see the executions!” A weak protest from her mother was quickly silenced by a look, a look that spoke volumes of the consequences if this child didn’t get _exactly_ what she wanted this very moment. After that, the pair of them left as quickly as they’d arrived, the little girl pausing to offer him one final phrase that’d haunt him the rest of his journey to the Department of Truth, “Big Brother is watching you.”

\----

Other than the advanced technology with practically limitless access to the data of his fellow ‘comrades’ (excluding, of course the party themselves) there was very little remarkable about the Department of Truth.

Its walls were whitewashed, unevenly so though no one ever commented on it, and its layout was basic at best, again no one commented. It would be a bad idea, after all, to appear ungrateful in the eyes, or ears, of their ever watching lords and masters… he supposed he should be grateful, at least, that the party had yet to acquire the necessary tools to read minds.

Though perhaps if they did, everyone would be thought criminals.

Everyone except his boss, his bosses daughter, and people like _them_ but… Michael liked to believe that they were the vocal minority. Because minority or majority, they were the only ones who could truly _be_ vocal.

“You know what that little girl of mine did the other day?” No and if given a choice he’d rather it remain that way, “Her troop were out on a hike and she slips off following this man. They keep on his trail for two hours and when they reach the nearest city, they hand him right over to the officials.”

“But why-”

“She made sure he _was_ some enemy agent.” Somehow Michael severely doubted that, a doubt he kept locked away in a faraway corner of his mind because people in his department weren’t _allowed_ to express those kinds of doubts, “But here’s the best part. Guess what put her onto him in the first place?”

There was a long, drawn out, silence in which the man looked around, gathering as much attention as he could to him before he added, “His shoes. Too fancy to be from these parts so he _must_ have been foreign. Probably a spy of some kind. You know they’ve been airlifting them in a lot lately.” He forced himself to drown out his boss' idle prattle, enough other people were pretending to be interested now for him to slip away to his desk.

Two names today on his list, less than usual but the day was young and there was plenty of time for more ‘enemies of the party’ to make themselves known and for the body count to rise before the day was through. _Comrade Miles 4750, Comrade Arryn 4871…_ another pair of names to add to the list when he was done, so that at least one person, for however little time he had left, would make sure they were remembered.

\----

The man in the canteen was staring at him.

Which wouldn’t have bothered him much normally except that normally there wasn’t evidence of thought crime hidden in his flat. And normally he knew the identity of the starer beyond ‘the man with the red sash who works in the fiction department’. Perhaps normality was another sacrifice he’d made when he’d first put pen to paper and wrote.

He didn’t know the man’s name, or anything about him other than rank and that… garish looking red sash that screamed _untouchable_. The sash of chastity, a promise to put big brother before any form of love or companionship, a sign of their devotion to the party.

Michael _hated_ it, hated _him_ even for wearing it. But the sash was hardly the greatest of his concerns when the man was _still_ staring at him. He broke his gaze, focusing instead on the bland food served in the canteen, and the blander company of his boss who was once again retelling the tale of his precious little girl’s latest ‘triumph’.

It would probably be enough to put him off his food if he wasn’t so aware of the cameras hovering, watching, and always watching, for weakness, doubt, deception… He shovelled another mouthful of his meal past his jaw, forcing it down his throat, and otherwise kept his mouth _shut._

“Michael doesn’t really appreciate newspeak do you?” A light nudge to his right arm forced him into the conversation anyway.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. I’m just not an expert so, I guess I don’t really know enough about it to _have_ an opinion-”

“Well it’s truly a _remarkable_ thing. And you know, you don’t _have_ to be an expert to know that newspeak is the only language whose vocabulary grows smaller each year. A beautiful thing, the destruction of words.” If words like ‘un-good’ and ‘un-useful’ could really be considered as words, let alone possess any kind of beauty to them. But he didn’t comment, knowing well enough that even the comments his conversation partner was making about the language would be enough to bring him under suspicion. Especially considered the not quite hidden sarcasm that’d managed to weave its way into the undertone of his words.

Thankfully he was saved from making a reply by the seemingly irrepressible need of his boss to once again recount the glorious deeds of his little girl, giving Michael a chance to once again disengage from the conversation, eyes moving back to the man with the red sash.

The man who _still_ hadn’t stopped staring.

He was thought police, of that Michael was almost certain, and if _he_ was watching him perhaps the little girl had been right. _Big Brother is watching you_ … he’d always assumed his time would be short after starting that diary, but he’d still believed he’d have more time than this.

\----

_2 + 2 = 4. It’s a simple equation. What’s important isn’t the result but that it’s true. It’s a fact. These facts I know. Today is precisely two weeks from when I began this diary. My date is April the 18th, theirs is still the 4th. My name is Michael Jones and I work for the Department of Truth. Today I helped kill 17 people. Two of them were kids. They existed, no matter what the department claims or removes. Nothing my department produces is truth. This entire society, big brother, the party. All of it is founded on lies and I know. I’m a dead man._

_Perhaps then this diary was never meant for me, but for the ones that follow. The unborn though… with the way newspeak is progressing I wonder if anyone will be able to understand these words, or any words that aren’t party approved. I’ve heard it said before that thoughtcrime will one day be an impossibility, because the words to commit it with shall no longer exist._

_I hope it isn’t true, that if someone reads this they will understand me but perhaps resistance is as futile as they claim. But ignorance isn’t strength, slavery isn’t freedom, war isn’t peace… and for that realisation, even if I’m doomed to be one of the last to think this way, I’m grateful for my futile rebellion._

_Because the only thing I can think of that’s worse than being a slave, is not even knowing you’re one._

\----

The man was watching him again.

He hadn’t seen him in a few days, had almost become convinced that it’d been a coincidence, or perhaps that he’d simply imagined it in a surge of his own paranoia… clearly he’d relaxed too soon though because here he was, staring at him again as if he could see through to Michael’s very soul and it took all of his restraint _not_ to shift under that stare, and those all seeing eyes that reminded him just a little _too_ much of Big Brother itself.

It was silence rather than words that drew his attention from the man this time. Silence and the pointed absence of the man who usually sat to his right, an absence his boss was clearly trying to ignore… he’d seen the moment of recognition in his eyes when he’d met Michael’s gaze though, the fleeting guilt before he’d managed to slip back into his usual professional mask.

Another name for the list then. _Comrade…_ No, that didn’t feel right. Not for a man he’d known. _Michael Burns_ then. He belatedly wished he could’ve known him better. If he was gone, that meant thought crime, meant that all these years he hadn’t been nearly as alone as he’d once believed and if only he’d said something then perhaps…

Perhaps they’d both just have died that much sooner.

Thought crime was a criminal act for a reason and he and this other Michael had _always_ been the dead, from the moment they’d chosen to act on it… He’d give him pride of place in the list of names in his diary, he owed the man that much, and he’d remember him every day, until they day Big Brother caught up with _him_ too.

\----

_I’ve begun to wonder if there is such a thing as freedom anymore._

_Free thought is a crime, free speech the evidence of it. Yet here I write freely and in that I have freedom, however little and however limited, in this moment I am FREE. Free to recognise that 2 + 2 = 4 and that there was once a man in existence called Michael Burns. Truth is freedom, not slavery. Truth is the absence of slavery and in this moment, by being truthful, I am no longer a slave._

_Later of course I will go to work, on May the 1st, still their April the 4th, and I will no longer be truthful or free but in these few stolen moments perhaps I am. Perhaps this is the closest, at least, that I will ever come to knowing freedom. I simply hope that those who read this diary, if any do, will understand the concept better than I do. Because they, unlike me, will have found it beyond frenzied forbidden scrawls over a tattered page._

\----

It was easiest to fulfil his intended role within the party when he was actually doing his job.

The advanced technology made it easier to block out the whitewalls and idle chatter of reality, a low inhuman voice asking for his name and designation as he settled back into his chair. “Michael Jones, 5079.”

_Confirmed. Welcome Comrade Michael. Project active. Please rectify all references to unperson 5083, name Barbara. Rewrite fullwise._

“Call birth records, search Comrade Barbara.” A list of Barbara’s blinked to life on screen, seeming endless. He scrolled for a moment before the number he was searching for finally came into view, “Select Barbara informationplus. Unwrite.”

_Assent unwrite?_

“Assent.” The certificate fell away from view, lost to the system as the names listed above and below converged to fill the empty space, “Call. Newspapers. Search. Barbara.”

_Three records._ The first was another woman, that much was made apparent by the slight difference in numbering, _5183_. Perhaps there was a glitch in the system. A vindictive part of him was pleased by the revelation, even as he made a mental note to inform his boss later. Wouldn’t want to get caught out after all. For all he knew this kind of glitching was standard, another way to catch out thought criminals…

The second record was more relevant, the name Comrade Gustavo listed alongside it as they were both credited for a huge breakthrough within the party, “Select Barbara. Unwrite.”

_Assent unwrite?_

“Assent.” Her name vanished, Gustavo now claiming full credit within the article before it flittered away to reveal another piece, this one clearly a solo focus on Comrade Barbara’s ‘remarkable contributions to the party’... it was almost a comfort to know that even those most dedicated to upholding Big Brother were capable of the same crime he’d committed, “Article totalunwrite.”

_Assent totalunwrite?_

“Assent. Call File. Comrade Barbara. Unwrite.”

_Assent unwrite?_ He hesitated for only a moment, the barrage of images of a real, living person, from birth to death, causing the breath to catch in his throat for a moment. She seemed… normal. As normal as anyone _could_ be these days and despite his thoughts before of her being dedicated to upholding Big Brother, here he could see otherwise. She’d lived, loved and had probably earned her status as a thought criminal far more thoroughly that Michael would earn his.

He wished, in that moment, that he could’ve known her beyond this moment. Beyond the images and names he had to erase, “Assent… Call. All files. Search. All records. Comrade Barbara. 5083.”

_No records. Number is unallocated. Person does not exist._

The familiar taste of bile rose in his throat as he logged off the system, grateful for the mercy of a smaller workload as he moved towards the canteen and the brief respite from his own guilt that it promised. _Comrade Barbara_ , another person’s blood on his hands…

Another name for the list.

\----

_Attention comrades. The two minutes hate will begin in ten seconds._

The usual horrific grinding sounds whirred to life, calling all departments to the section in front of a large, wide screen. The screen where another, nameless thought criminal would be shown… and executed.

Perhaps one day that’d be him.

_Another enemy of the party has been captured. A member of the Brotherhood has confessed to conspiring to kill Big Brother and to attack our freedom._

“I am a thoughtcriminal.” No sooner had the words been said, loud and clear, through the giant speakers mounted to the walls on either side of the room, the ruckus begun. Screaming, yelling, clamoring, chanting. All of it indecipherable. He could see the man with the red sash near the front, his eyes ablaze as if the man on the screen had personally wronged him. No different then to anyone else in the crowd.

He played along, good by now at faking anger, good enough to convince the world around him that _he_ was one of _them_.

But as the chanting grew louder, less and less decipherable, and the cameras grew more and more obscured by the masses he came to a sudden revelation. That freedom didn’t _have_ to be limited to his hastily written scrawlings in the dark. Here they couldn’t see, couldn’t hear well enough to know what he shouted. Down with thoughtcrime, down with the party, what difference did it make which he screamed.

No one would hear him.

“Down with Big Brother.” A mere whisper at first, but even so they’d have seen if they were going to, “Down with Big Brother.” Louder this time and yet no one turned to look. No one knew, he realized, or perhaps no one cared, “Down with Big Brother!” He could feel the sound catching at his throat and suddenly he didn’t care, “Down with Big Brother, Down with Big Brother, Down with Big Brother!” They could kill him for this, he didn’t care. Shoot him in the head, he didn’t care. They always shot people like him in the head, he didn’t care. “Down with Big Brother!” Because in this moment, he was free. _Truly_ free. “Down with Big Brother!”

He only just caught himself in time, noticing the change in the crowd just before the noise dropped around him, allowed the man on the feed to be heard once more.

_What do you want to say to Big Brother now?_

“Thank you.” It was the same thing they all said, every thought criminal that’d ever featured in the two minute hate. Always thank you, worse still it always sounded _genuine_. Michael had long since decided if he must have last words, he wouldn’t allow them to be those ones.

A loud bang moments later, a louder cheer and then the horrible metallic grinding from before. _Eleven hundred and two. Two minutes hate is over comrades._

The masses moved quickly, back to their posts, or to the canteen, clearing out of the area as fast as they’d arrived. He saw two men collide, the later falling into a stack of chairs to the side of the hall and… surely it wasn’t a thought crime to show concern in those circumstances, was it?

He was across the room offering the man a hand before he could give himself an answer, immediately regretting his own impulsiveness when he caught sight of the flash of red around the man’s waist that was all too worryingly _familiar_ , “Are you okay?”

“It’s nothing. I’ll be alright in a second.”

“Nothing broken?”

“Nothing broken.” He took Michael’s offered hand, allowing him to pull him back to his feet, “Thank you.” The man was gone seconds later but he’d left something behind, something that Michael felt had to be deliberate. A scrap of paper. He could feel it against his palm even as he kept his hand balled into a fist.

Too many cameras here. Whatever it was the man had left him, it clearly wasn’t meant for _them_.

\----

Three words.

Hidden away amidst the pages of his diary now, amidst the countless others that could get him killed, he had no doubt _would_ one day.

Three words.

And yet these were somehow _more_ dangerous. He understood now why the man had been in such a hurry to leave, why he hadn’t lingered.

Three words.

He’d never actually heard them spoken. Well not in that order. The first and last were in common usage but the middle one… that was a word solely for Big Brother.

Three words.

Because Big Brother was the only thing worthy of the word, according to the party.

Three words.

Thought crime. Even more so than what he’d screamed before in the two minutes hate, more than anything he’d ever written. 2 + 2 = 4, War is not Peace… none of it compared to this.

Three words.

Hidden away amidst the pages of his diary in the hopes that maybe they hadn’t, even with their ever present all seeing eyes, managed to spot this.

Three words…

_I love you._

\----

He didn’t see the man with the red sash again until a week later.

Initially he thought that maybe Big Brother had seen him writing the note, perhaps had even seen him handing it to Michael. It surprised him that his first concern was the man and not himself in those scenarios. But something about those three words had gotten under his skin and inside his head and… he just hoped that this wasn’t another trick.

Because if it was, he was falling for it. Possibly even past the point of no return.

He tried not to linger on those thoughts. If the man lived, he’d see him again. If not, he wouldn’t. Either way, drawing focus to himself or the man wouldn’t exactly help matters for either of them. Better to stay silent and wait.

And a week later his patience was rewarded as he collided with the man in a corridor, another piece of paper switching hands, bigger this time. Clearly the man knew now, or trusted at least, that Michael had ways of keeping the message hidden. He worked the rest of that day with a slightly clenched fist. Thankfully, no one called him out on it. Perhaps it was just that they were too distracted by the recent disappearance of their boss…

The first thing he did when he pulled out the diary that night was add the name _Matt Hullum_ to the list at the back. The second was to carefully unfurl the note and set it beside the first.

_Sunday Afternoon. At fifteen. Get the train. Third station. Turn left and follow the path. Wait by the biggest tree, covered in moss._

_Wait for me._

He didn’t know this man’s name. He’d barely talked with him all this time, had assumed he was thought police, had despised him and yet… he knew he’d go. He knew he’d wait. Even if every instinct screamed at his that this was probably a trap he knew he would.

Because of three words that should never have been his.

\----

“We’re alright here.”

“We are?”

“We’re miles from anywhere. There’s no cameras here, I’ve checked. Big Brother isn’t watching.” A wide grin stretched across the man’s lips as he settled down next to Michael against the tree’s trunk, “I’m Gavin.”

“Michael… you said you checked?”

“I was careful. Had to be or I’d have been caught a while back now.” Something in Michael relaxed a little at the confidence in Gavin’s words.

“You’ve done this before then.”

“Once or twice… four times maybe.” A strangely specific number. It probably meant something, though what it meant he didn’t have a clue. The only significance four posed in his mind, after all, was his own little equation of truth.

“And you’ve never been caught?”

“Not once. I’m good at what I do.”

“And what’s that?” Faint amusement danced in the man’s eyes as he shifted a little to face him more directly.

“I detect people who don’t belong.”

“You’d have been a good fit for the thought police.” The words escaped his lips before he could stop them, a sense of regret immediately following and yet… Gavin was laughing. Actual laughter, not the kind faked at the appropriate designated moments and… it was actually pretty incredible to listen to.

“Maybe. I think I’d probably like their meetings even less than the chastity ones though. The people who go to those can drone on for bloody hours.”

“...Bloody?” He’d had no idea chastity meetings were so violent. The red sash suddenly took on a whole new meaning and… clearly the horror must have been showing on Michael’s face because Gavin was laughing again, the bright sound filling the air as he shifted a little closer.

“It’s a curse. Kind of like ‘bad’ or ‘ungood’ but more… forbidden. Bloody’s just scraping the barrel of forbidden curses Michael.”

“What’s another one?”

“ _Fuck_.” The man seemed almost too close now, “You know what the best part about that one is?”

“What?” Why did he suddenly feel so out of breath?

“It’s two forbidden things rolled into one. The first one’s the word, the second one’s the act.”

“What’s the act?”

“Sex.” He could practically feel the outline of Gavin’s lips against his at this point.

“Sex?”

“Tell me you know what sex is.” Michael’s turn to laugh now at the genuine look of concern that briefly passed across Gavin’s features.

“I know what sex is.”

“You know it’s forbidden.”

“So’s this.”

“So was what you were yelling during the two minutes hate.” Michael’s blood suddenly ran cold, “I don’t think anyone else saw. They weren’t watching.”

“You were?”

“I already told you. My job’s to detect those who don’t belong.”

“But you’re not thought police.”

“No, I’m not thought police. Thought police don’t hold hands with thought criminals,” Michael hadn’t even noticed when the man’s hand had slipped into his… it just felt _natural_ to have it that way, “Or send them love notes last time I checked.”

“Then who are you?”

“Gavin Free. Yes, before you say it, the irony of that name has not escaped me.” The smile on the man’s lips was still there but something about it now seemed a little heavier than before, “Before I finish that answer will you answer something for me? Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“Down with Big Brother.” He shouldn’t answer this question, he _knew_ he shouldn’t. If there were cameras Gavin had missed here, or he’d misjudged the man practically seated in his lap by this point, then admitting the truth was as good as confessing to thought crime.

But if not…

“I meant it.” Suddenly the man’s smile was euphoric, his hand moving to lightly trace it’s way along one of Michael’s cheekbones.

“I did too. The note I gave you. After you helped me up.” The hand slid to rest comfortably at the base of his neck, “I work for the Brotherhood.” And suddenly Michael understood _exactly_ why he’d needed that answer.

“It’s real.”

“It’s real and... there’s a place within it reserved for you, if you want it.” Michael wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He was pretty sure there weren’t words to express the rush of emotions that suddenly surged through him. Words that hadn’t been long since doctored, or otherwise removed entirely by the party that was.

“Yeah. Yeah I want it.” And suddenly there were lips on his, insistent, firm and fierce, and suddenly Michael understood exactly why this was forbidden. Understood as he kissed back just as fiercely, pulling Gavin tighter against his chest, his hands practically clawing at the man’s red _bloody_ ribbon in the efforts to rid him of it.

Because after you’d realized the intensity of real, raw, passionate love how could you even begin to love the party who would chose to tear that from you?

\----

“They’d kill us just for being here you know.”

“You really need to work on your pillow talk Michael.” Another peal of amused laughter fell from his lips.

“Well we’re not in a bed.”

“Treeside manner then.” Michael grinned at that, “You know what I mean you bloody pleb!”

“Pleb?”

“Idiot.”

“There’s no way pleb’s a word. Forbidden or not.”

“It’s absolutely a word!”

“No fucking way.” The affronted look seemed to melt from Gavin’s features the moment he full registered what Michael had said.

“So not a fan of pleb but you like fuck huh?”

“Given the circumstances I didn’t think you’d need to ask that.” A burst of amused laughter that Michael eventually chose to silence with a kiss, softer this time than before. Not better or worse. Different.

“I suppose not.” The smile lingered on the man’s lips for a moment before fading, “Your train will be here soon.” And suddenly the light, freeing feeling of the clearing began to recede, to fade… Gavin’s hand was within his again, another piece of paper lodged in his grip, “Follow these instructions three weeks from now. They’ll lead you to us.”

“You’re not coming back are you?”

“Geoff’s pretty sure Big Brother knows my face now…” He must’ve seen the way Michael’s pace paled because he quickly added, “We caught different trains. I’ve deliberately associated with others to throw them off your scent. You’ll be safe for three weeks.”

“And then I come to you.”

“And then you come to _us_. After that, you don’t ever have to go back.” The faintest stirrings of hope flickered to life within his gut, “Just play their game for a little while longer.”

“Stay safe.” Gavin smiled softly, pulling Michael into one final kiss before moving to smooth the creases in his shirt a little.

“That’s what I’m best at… you too. I’ll see you soon Michael Jones.”

\----

Had the department of truth always been this mundane?

Better mundane than deadly he supposed but the days seemed to fucking _drag_ between now and _his_ June 21st, their April 4th… Perhaps he’d know the real date once he was with the Brotherhood. Perhaps not, but at least they wouldn’t always claim it was _always_ April 4th. It felt a little cold right now to be April after all, or June for that matter.

Perhaps it was November instead. Perhaps that didn’t matter anymore than it had before. What mattered was the passage of time that passed and the three weeks exactly he had to wait. To keep Gavin safe. To keep the promise he’d made to him to keep _himself_ safe. It would’ve been hard to keep his impatience from showing though, had it not been for the stakes he _knew_ were involved.

So he kept himself busy. Did his job, efficiently and effectively enough that he’d had to start a second page of names in the diary, kept his mouth shut on important issues. Participated in the two minutes hate and pretended not to see the people’s faces, or hear their genuine thank yous, or feel anything other than a burning love for Big Brother.

His former boss’ daughter had stopped eyeing him funnily. She now eyed the man who worked one desk over from him with the stare he’d once believed would seal his fate and when their eyes met, he saw a sense of understanding there.

Perhaps she’d noticed his lack of a reaction to her father’s absence and had approved. He’d been slightly preoccupied by the note in his hand at the time but he’d gladly accept the unexpected benefits of those circumstances if it meant staying alive for the remainder of these three weeks.

He almost felt bad for the man at the other desk though, because he didn’t know what that look meant. Not yet. It was hard to believe a mere child could be as ruthless as her without seeing it first hand, and few did without being the focus of it.

He was lucky to be an exception. Especially when her own flesh and blood had failed to be the same.

\----

_It’s June the 14th... Maybe the date doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is it’s 7 days left of waiting. A week. A week and then…_

_The Brotherhood. Gavin. Geoff, whoever he is. The ‘us’ he mentioned… Freedom. Freedom beyond this and the two minute hate. Real, permanent freedom._

_I hardly know what to write. For the first time since beginning this diary I have hope. Hope that maybe Big Brother won’t find me, or that if they do I’ll be truly worthy of the title ‘thought criminal’ by then. Two weeks ago I cursed in the open daylight, I committed forbidden acts and I’m fairly certain that I fell in love with Gavin Free. In one day away from their gaze I did more than I’ve done against them in a lifetime and I want more of that. I want to kill Big Brother. And I want to do it with more words and deeds and love. Everything forbidden and everything worth living for in the first place._

_Freedom isn’t slavery or truth, freedom is free. Being free to make choices, or to remain unpunished for the ones you cannot make nor regret. I didn’t choose to love Gavin Free, at the same time it’s the best choice I ever could have made. Freedom is knowing, not that I will love him, but that I can. And that no power, not even Big Brother, possesses the authority to stop me._

_Freedom is love._

\----

It was June the 21st, three weeks since then last time he’d been here, and Michael had just boarded a train.

He climbed into the third carriage as instructed, relaxing into the seat as much as he could with the knowledge that Big Brother were still watching swirling in the back of his mind. He got off at the seventh stop, immediately boarding another, second carriage this time, sat opposite a man with a full beard and the friendliest face, save Gavin’s under that tree, that he could ever remember seeing.

Perhaps this was one of the ‘us’ Gavin had mentioned before, though he knew better than to ask. Big Brother was watching after all. Plus, for all he knew, this man was thought police, or a harmless citizen, instead of a member of the rebellion. If the former, Michael dreaded to think how many people he’d have managed to lure out with that air of trustworthiness and openness that the man seemed to emanate. If the latter… well, better to allow him to remain harmless and, through that, unharmed.

If he was part of the ‘us’, Michael would know eventually.

Another two stops then he got off. The man followed. He got on a third train. The man followed. Suddenly the face seemed a lot less friendly, even though the expression remained unchanged. He forced himself to keep his resolve.

Off at the second stop. The man followed. Down a narrow path. Still following. To the spot hidden by trees that Gavin told him to come to today… And there he was. He could feel the tension of the past three weeks draining from his shoulders as he all but launched himself into the man’s arms, relieved, delirious laughter coming to his lips as Gavin pulled back, his hands lingering on Michael’s shoulders as he turned to offer a wide smile to the man who’d been tailing him.

He _was_ a part of the ‘us’ then, “Michael this is Jack. Jack, Michael.” The man offer a hand which he readily shook, an easy smile lighting up the man’s face as he apologized for the tailing before.

“Gavin was concerned and we couldn’t risk sending him back out there with the party always watching.”

“It’s fine, really.”

“According to our people still in there, we got you out just in time... One of the girls from the youth groups had spotted a smudge of ink on your hands.” Perhaps _that_ was why she’d been looking a little less closely then. Because she didn’t need to search for evidence that she’d already found, “You’ll be an unperson in their systems before the day’s out I’d imagine.”

“I’ll be dead you mean.”

“We _are_ the dead. That’s their story, doesn’t mean it has to be ours.” Despite first impressions, Michael decided, he really liked Jack.

“We are the dead... I think I like the sound of that.”

\----

The discomforting whirring of the machines that’d searched him for bugs shortly afterwards, he’d liked a lot less, “He’s clean.” He heard, muffled a little by gradual tapering off of the scanners at work.

“You’re sure?” A voice he now knew to be the mysterious Geoff’s thanks to the quick introduction Gavin had rattled off as they’d set up the scanner.

“Certain.” The man operating it _went_ by Ryan... apparently Michael wasn’t meant to ask about that. There’d also been the man who’d met them at the entrance of the Brotherhood’s base. Ray Narvaez Jr, born here in the base and, as he made a point of mentioning to Michael, never unpersoned since, as far as Big Brother were concerned, he’d never been one in the first place. There’d been others, but these names seemed to be the most important to Gavin so these were the ones he made a point of committing to memory first.

A few moments later and their faces swam back into view as he was pulled out of the scanner, Geoff offering him a hand up from the table and offering a wry smile, “Sorry about that. Never can be _too_ fucking careful with these things.” Michael nodded, simply grateful to be away from the machines that reminded him just a little too much of the advanced technology he used to work with.

“So, now that we’ve established he’s clean…” Gavin cut in, seemingly impatient about something, though what it was Michael had no idea. Geoff seemed to understand what the man was getting at though, based on the slight nod he gave before the man whirred into action, grabbing hold of Michael’s hand and dragging him down one of the long winding corridors he’d seen on the way to the machines he’d been tested with.

All the way down the corridor he was given long winded explanations of the rooms each door belonged to, the light, free and careless way his voice wound its way through the corridors more reassuring to Michael than the absence of cameras, the presence of the Brotherhood or even the knowledge that he’d escaped in time. Because if Gavin felt at home here, it _must_ be safe.

A part of him wondered when he’d first begun to trust this man so entirely. Perhaps that was what love was, other than freedom. An unwavering sense of faith in the person you fell for… Perhaps he should ask Gavin what he thought. He could after all, here where Big Brother had no ears to hear them. But then again, perhaps no one truly knew what it was. Only that no propaganda or party was capable of containing it.

“And this is your room.” He was drawn back to reality with a flourish towards an open door, his feet cautiously taking the first steps into his new living space and…

“Is that a-”

“Bed? Yeah. Real mattress, sheets. The Brotherhood had to scavenge for a while to gather this stuff but eventually we managed it. There’s another six beds we’ve yet to fill. And that’s just in this house.”

“The Brotherhood’s big then.”

“Bloody huge! We’ve got widespread bases of operations across the three continents-”

“Big enough to take down Big Brother?”

“...One day. We hope. Not yet though. Still, a just a generation or so ago and the Brotherhood hadn’t even been formed.”

“But the party says-”

“That we’ve been at war for centuries? The party also says that it’s April the 4th 2014, every single day, for the past 30 years... The Brotherhood was originally an idea used to lure out sympathisers. They had people pose as members, lure out people like us and then… well you can probably imagine the rest.” He could all too vividly. Anyone who’d participated in the two minute hate could. They’d all watched the executions after all. They all knew the price for thought crime.

“What changed?”

“A couple who’d considered tracking them down figured it out. And so they founded a real Brotherhood and begun to bring in others they knew were sympathisers. Eventually the cause grew and before they knew it, Big Brother had created it’s own worst nightmare.” Michael grinned at that, belatedly remembering the bed when his legs hit the back of it, causing him to fall back against the mattress with a soft thud, the smirking cause of that fall joining him there moments later, “And they did it all for love.” Lips met, gentle and unhurried. A kiss that spoke volumes of the time they’d have to savor this, now that both of them were safe.

It felt like hours later, and perhaps it was, when a gentle knock on his door finally caused the pair to break apart, Michael’s hands moving to lightly rest over Gavin’s hips in a strange rush of a possessiveness he’d never have been allowed to show anywhere else, “Geoff says food’s ready.”

The bearded almost-stalker from before… Jack if he remembered right. The man currently offering him an apologetic smile as Gavin suddenly whirred into life once more, bounding up from Michael’s lap and, after checking to see he was okay with the situation, taking off down the corridor to where the promise of Geoff’s food apparently awaited him.

“His food’s that good huh?”

“It’ll be the best meal of your life so far, that much I can guarantee.”

“Bold claims.”

“Said the same to him when he made them. Ended up eating my words, along with three extra helpings.” Michael grinned a little at that, “I’m guessing Gavin hasn’t quite gotten around to explaining the… _situation_ here yet, has he?”

“Situation?”

“Are you familiar at all with polygamy?”

“A little… wait so you, Geoff, Ryan and Ray right? I’m not an…”

“Asshole?”

“Was gonna go with unnice guy but… asshole’s another curse right?”

“Among other things.” A genuine laugh escaped his lips this time.

“Point is, I’m not the judging type and if you guys are happy, that’s gre-”

“What if I said Gavin was a part of it too?” Michael stared at him for a long moment, not quite comprehendingly, “This is why Gavin should’ve handled this before.”

“So Gavin’s with you guys… _Fuck_ you must hate me.”

“Not quite.”

“But I-”

“You didn’t know.”

“But still-”

“But nothing. He loves you, you love him. Nothing wrong with that.”

“But you love him.”

“Of course.”

“Then how can you-”

“Be okay with this? You’re not the first person he’s done this with. How do you think Ryan got involved? Or Ray? Or me for that matter? Gavin just has a lot of love in his heart.”

“But you guys are with each other too.”

“We are.”

“How did that happen?”

“Time mostly. We got to know each other and realized that hey, maybe Gavin’s heart wasn’t the only one around here that was a little bigger than we originally thought.”

“Do you expect me to-”

“Join us? Only if you want to. We don’t love you like Gavin does, not yet, but none of us are particularly opposed to the idea. Relationships here take longer to build, but in the end they’re worth that extra time… Plus, Gavin hasn’t been wrong yet when he’s tried to introduce someone new to the relationship.”

“So you’re all really willing to try this?”

“We are.”

“And if I _did_ want to join you?”

“Eating some of Geoff’s cooking would probably be a good start.”

“Lead the way.” It felt only natural to take the hand offered to him as they followed the path Gavin had hurried down earlier, the scent of real _freshly cooked_ food wafting through from what must have been a kitchen of some kind. It smelled new, different, free… if freedom could be a smell.

And the look on the other men’s faces when they caught sight of Jack’s hand in his? That was strangely freeing too. The sudden presence of hope, possibility, uncertainty in the room… until Jack broke the silence by teasing Gavin about running away from his responsibilities, the man in question pointedly looking at his empty plate instead of the bearded man in front of him as Geoff moved over to offer Michael a plate.

“I’m sure Jack’s already given you the spiel but best meal of your life so far or I owe you something.”

“Something?”

“Never bothered to figure out the specifics for that. Won’t need to.” After the first bite of the meal Michael had to concede the man was right.

“It’s not as if he’s had much to compare it to before now. Party meals are hardly fair competition.”

“Hey I managed to seduce Ray with my cooking-”

“I’m easy Geoff. The free food was an added bonus.” The younger man teased as he carefully slid around the man in question to grab seconds.

“And I seem to recall you being a pretty big fan yourself Ryan if-”

“I never claimed you were a bad cook Geoff, just that the comparison was an unfair one.”

“Asshole.” The man smirked up at him, gleefully stealing a little from Ray’s plate when he settled down moments later. The meal more or less continued like this for the duration, with Jack and Gavin eventually resurfacing from their little talk and joining in the chaos. And Michael sat back and watched it unfold, a slight smile curling the corners of his lips as he realized he didn’t have to worry that he wasn’t quite a part of this yet. Because he had time, one man who loved him and four more who were willing to try.

And to Michael’s ears, that combination sounded pretty fucking close to perfect.

\----

_The date is April 4th. My date, Big Brother’s date, they’ve finally fucking converged once more._

_Today seems a pretty damn fitting day then to remember the life I lead before, and to think of those still trapped in similar circumstances. Jack occasionally goes on recruitment drives, and usually brings back at least one person like the man I was, so that helps the guilt a little. Plus I’m not erasing people so their blood is no longer on my hands… that helps a lot. The rest of us stay away from Big Brother. Myself, Geoff and Gavin because they know our faces, Ray because they’ve never known his and we’d all like to keep it that way and Ryan simply because his work here is too important to allow him to leave._

_I don’t think he minds too much. Whatever hell he went through with them before sometimes shows through in his eyes and, honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so fucking broken as him in those moments. I know now that his real name is James, it changes nothing. I imagine if I knew the reasons for the sometimes dark look in his eyes, the effect would be similar. Love will do stuff like that to a guy._

_I’m happy. I never really thought I’d understand that feeling, let alone feel it. But somehow, impossibly, I am. I’m alive too. Hard to say how long that’ll last with the conflict still raging on, and our numbers considerably lower than theirs, but as long as it does, it’s something. And that something is pretty goddamn incredible._

_So is love. So are they. So are we._

_We are the Brotherhood. We are the dead. And yet we are so fucking alive._


End file.
